Note : Sorry, sorry to be so late... This update took ages… First, because I only have materially two hours a day to devote to The Boutique Robillard, so I am writing, in the midst of my research, at the speed of a turtle. This chapter was difficult to write because, as a "guest" so aptly put it in a comment, I had built a brick wall in front of Rhett by the end of Chapter 50. To be honest, I didn't know how to get out of it. Here's a hint: before writing the first paragraph, I had titled this new chapter "Burials"... so it took days of thinking to get it right.
Note about Clementina's "anniversary": sometimes, I throw some "hints" at randoms, thinking that I might use them later in the story. When the director of the National Theater talked to Rhett in the reception hall, he said : "when it premiered in 1866, it ran on Broadway for 475 performances. By the way, Rhett, you were at the opening night at Niblo's, weren't you?" That's how he met Clementina, and that's why the showgirl wrote about an "anniversary" of their meeting.
For the ones who missed what Scarlett made of Clementina's letter : at the end, "On her way to sit down, she passed the small wicker trash can without glancing at it. Among a few crumpled sheets of paper, remnants of her work drafts, tiny shredded pieces of paper, no bigger than a pea, were scattered. If someone had paid attention, he would have discerned only a few anonymous red dots among this confetti." Voilà, the red dots were what was remaining of Clementina's lipsticks..
Duncan's team will be happy because the next two chapters will be devoted to him. I was beginning to miss him.
Chapter 51. Baptisms
Thursday, July 8, 1876, 3:45 p.m., aboard the Piedmond Airline Route
The players' room was so smoky you could barely make out the men sitting around the other two tables next to it.
The husbands who were traveling as a couple were taking advantage of this retreat to get away from their stilted wives by indulging in the vice of gambling. The singles were finding in this place a diversion to the interminable journey. In any case, all were satisfied of this manly companionship of circumstance in this confined space.
Rhett had hardly moved from his seat since this morning. Ever since he had slammed the door to the private varnish room shut after hastily getting dressed in his room.
It was there in this miniature gambling den that he had taken refuge, trying to calm the frantic beating of his stricken heart. Aware that he was on the verge of a heart attack, it took all his willpower to control his gasping breath and keep the danger at bay.
When he arrived, at this early hour of the morning, there was only a single man in the room, sleeping in an armchair. With his head resting on the back of the other leather seat, he gradually got his erratic pulse under control. The porter serving the player's compartment rushed to provide him with tea and a small vial filled with some medication that was supposed to fight against his racing blood pressure.
She missed her goal by a hair's breadth: to finish me off! What had he once said to her? "You don't mean anything that misery to any men!"
In the silence of the compartment, only disturbed by the snoring of his neighbor, he had all the time to pester against the one who had almost literally broken his heart.
Black ideas were creeping insidiously while drawing up an implacable balance sheet: for fifteen years, all his actions had revolved around Scarlett: conquering her, attracting her, rejecting her, forgetting her, seducing her, hating her, desiring her, wiping her off the face of the earth, stalking her, betraying her, and lusting after her. Always coveting her...
She, with two little words - "It's over" - had succeeded in exploding the ridiculous quest for a Grail made up in fact of false artifices. In the space of two minutes, he had been catapulted from Paradise to Nothingness.
A world without her... No more waking up wondering how to conquer her. No more falling asleep trying to forget her... The emptiness...
He shook his head in denial. No! A future like this was not an option.
As he regained some energy, he laughed at himself: Here I am, reclined in this room, licking my wounds like a wounded animal...
As the morning progressed, the three gaming tables were occupied by men "ready to fight" and to "cheat" the opponent.
His extreme nervousness found an outlet in the communicative gambling frenzy of the small group excited by the mass of dollars that were spread out on the tables.
He did not care. He kept losing games, much to the bewilderment of one of the players who had known the Atlanta poker king for years. However, how could he concentrate when his only concern was cursing a certain ebony-haired bewitching?
Besides, stripping himself of bundles of money had the symbolic virtue of swallowing his rage.
Stripping off the dollars, as he had stripped off his shell in front of her last night. Laying his love bare only to be trampled an hour later by a laconic "It's over".
Rage was taking possession of him, as violent as a cannonball, forcing him to clutch his cards like a lifeline to hide the trembling in his fingers.
He could not believe he had let himself be taken in as easily as a virgin kneeling before his first love.
Each dry sound of his cards thrown roughly on the inlaid board was in symbiosis with a silent invective uttered to the absent.
Jaws clenched, he communicated with his poker companions only by onomatopoeia. But in his head, he was ranting and raving.
Then, according to his ruminations, the more he was linking the bad draws, the more his nervousness was exceeding a paroxysm, which he had however believed to reach by leaving the varnish. Because this rage was gradually taking possession of another target: himself.
The more he thought about it, the more he wondered how they could both have been absorbed in a crazy spiral. She, going from incandescent eroticism to the embodiment of coldness; he, from the love-struck lover to the cynic insulting her for having prostituted herself in order to satisfy her plot.
With a few laconic and cruel sentences, the most tender hours he had lived with her - and none other - had been shattered.
In a flash, they had put up a bricks' wall together - a wall of misunderstanding and resentment - a dreaded wall to breach.
What madness had taken hold of him? And of her? This very morning, he was at the height of happiness. Finally, she had answered his desire. Better than that, and it was unhoped-for - a gift from Heaven or a daydream - she had been an active participant in their lovemaking. Their union of bodies and hearts was perfect. As had been this idyllic stay in Washington.
If she had not meant to him such an implacable outcome to their story, he would have laughed so much their fury, after such an elation, was pathetic and immature.
"Immaturity" to describe Scarlett was a mild understatement. She had faced Sherman's army and saved, better than any man, her precious Tara; she had struggled to make the sawmill and her hardware store successful; she had destroyed three husbands, including himself. And she had outlasted the death of their Bonnie. Despite all this, she continued to behave like a capricious and despotic young Belle. And, he had just paid the price of it.
But why?
He had long since lost interest in the poker game, immersed in the peregrinations of his thoughts. Moreover, since half an hour, the hour of the nap advancing, a lazy languor was wining the hand. The bets were becoming more modest, the gestures more hesitant to reveal the card folds.
The moment was rather for the gourmet tasting of strong alcohols or digestives delicate to the palate. Besides, the place stank so strongly that the alcohol vapors were enough to turn heads.
He had managed to abstain from drinking for the first hour, but anger and incomprehension combined to sweep away any instinct for caution. At noon, he had forced himself to swallow a sandwich cooked by the Delmonico in order to try to absorb the quantity of whisky ingested.
The poker partners decided to take a break. They took the opportunity to stretch their legs or get some fresh air on the gallery.
He leaned back against the backrest, but despite his fatigue, he struggled not to close his eyes.
Especially not to close the eyes, because if not bewitching images of the last night would make him fall back in her web. It was enough for him simply to pass the hand on his face. The smell of the skin of Scarlett was impregnated of it. To make him crazy of desire and of lack... To make him flinch and return in their varnish with fracas to shake her and to extort her an explanation. In order to arrive finally to make her fail under his kisses.
No ! He had to keep a clear head to analyze the situation.
He began to repeat word for word what she had said to him, hoping to detect a detail that he had missed and to find a zest of reason to this incomprehensible behavior.
It was necessary to be pragmatic and to judge the situation objectively. How to qualify it if not by one of her morning tantrums fueled of cruelty - where she excelled - of which she had generously given him during all these years?
What had she said more today than her usual spoiled child's prickles, accustomed to making all the males in the audience go crazy, him first? Indeed, she had proudly bragged about the date of her future marriage with her "tailor".
Rhett straightened up, getting ready to face it: I have been fighting the untouchable Ashley Wilkes for fifteen years. So, a few months' romance isn't going to make me back down!
Had he spoken aloud? The same tired man from earlier looked at him warily. Then he fell back into the limbo of his drowsiness.
As if emerging from a nightmare, he judged her behavior lucidly: I have to be honest. I was as immature as she was. At my age, this is pitiful.
What the well did he burst into flames and insult her as bluntly as one of Belle's employees?
The only explanation was that he had reached such a peak of happiness that his sensitivity had been exacerbated, so much it had the appearance of a mirage. Then, unconsciously, he had taken advantage of the first morning crisis of his beloved to destroy the happiness at hand.
He turned to be so blind that his brain had ignored the most limpid truth: that of his perfect knowledge of the reactions of Scarlett's body and especially of her capacity to lie. However, in spite of this talent, which she had raised to the rank of great art, she had never known how to feign the least physical emotion in his arms.
He had cursed her for that. At least he had not been cheated "on the goods". She had been honest from the start.
So it was not possible that he could have been so mistaken in misinterpreting her passionate gestures, her body that gave itself eagerly, and her eyes that looked at him finally... with love!
It was no longer time to make assumptions. He was going to burst the abscess, and make her listen to reason by sweeping away what had been so strongly worrying her.
He leapt to his feet, his confidence restored, when the shrill screech of the brakes stopped him in his tracks.
Through the half-open window, the stationmaster's announcement rang out solemnly in the gaming compartment, like an endgame blow: "Atlanta, Georgia! Arrival of the Piedmond Airline Route special train! Four minute stop!"
In a confused hubbub, the ballet inherent to any station platform played the umpteenth theatrical representation of the day, between the dry noise of the slamming doors, the rolling of the carts dragging the suitcases, the hasty steps of the travelers, the happy exclamations of the reunions and the emotional goodbyes of the separating families.
Passengers arriving at their destination in Atlanta were making way for those boarding for New Orleans.
Without his noticing, like insects attracted by the light, he found himself leaning against the window. He distinguished the tall body of Pork hosting a thin figure wearing emerald satin.
His vision blurred.
As she stood, he could not make out her expression. She was wearing the hat he had given her the day before... If she was wearing it in spite of everything she had said... An impulse made him join his private varnish long before the train left the station.
His instinct was to look for physical clues as to what had caused a cataclysm in his former wife's pretty head.
By an irrepressible reflex, he pushed open the door of what had been Scarlett's room. The bed was made. Only the lingering scent of gardenia was still floating.
George had meticulously cleaned the car. The living room had retained no trace of his destructive rage. Every shard of broken glass had been carefully picked up, the alcohol that had been spilled on the carpet had been miraculously sucked up by a highly effective detergent. New bottles were once again parading on the liquor cabinet shelf as if nothing had happened. The bill for the "accidental spillage" would be paid in full, and Rhett would generously reward the porter's discretion.
A hope, as diaphanous as the wings of a butterfly, pushed him to inspect the room where his destiny had inexplicably been played out. Perhaps she had changed her mind and left him a message?
Nothing! Everything was spotless. He cursed himself to check if she had scribbled a draft of an apology before throwing it in the wicker trash can. But George would never have made the mistake of not emptying it.
The only items that had escaped the employee's maniacal tidying were those arranged on the sideboard. The items found in the pockets of the suit had been left untouched in the copper bowl.
Rhett grabbed the National Theater letterhead. Obviously Scarlett had handled it because it was completely unfolded. It was just the schedule for the Black Crook performances. Nothing that could have ruffled her mood...
Frustrated at not finding a sign to hold on to, he crumpled the list into a ball and angrily tossed it into the trash.
A golden beam glinted on the table. A bad feeling made him clench his jaws.
Around the closed briefcase, George had elegantly lined up the medieval patterned hairbrush and the antique bracelet.
His hoarse cry was lost in the vast, desperately empty car: "Go to hell, Scarlett! "
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips because he was ready to chase her even to hell and back into his arms.
oooOOooo
Friday, July 9, 1876, 10 p.m., New Orleans, French Quarter, Royal Street
Arrived at the station shortly before, he had just had time to join his hotel of predilection to change and put on his jacket of the day before cleaned by George.
On Royal Street, he stopped in front of the house of Charles Le Moyne de Bienville (*1) His friend for more than twenty years. In fact, his only true friend. From their first meeting during a poker game, both had sensed that they belonged to the same race that of rebels of destinies all mapped out, charging at their immediate desires. Those of the lords with original ideas combined with their membership of the Southern elite. Now, a convergence of interests was going to tighten their bonds even more.
Even partially hidden in the nighttime gloom, this mansion in the French Quarter, built at the end of the previous century, exuded the old-fashioned charm of Caribbean colonial influence with its ochre brick facade surrounded by two floors of wrought iron galleries. Bougainvillea had taken possession of the columns supporting the piazzas, so much, so that their flowers intertwined with the delicate ironwork until they reached the top of the roof.
Two palm trees and tall succulent plants flourished in the garden surrounding the building, preserving privacy and lending an atmosphere of mystery.
Rhett's nostrils twitched as he inhaled the heavy, voluptuous scents of the tropical flower-filled groves.
Charles really does live in a little paradise... For Rhett, the place, which he had known for more than twenty years, had always been synonymous with the sweetness of life.
All the green shutters were still open. Through the illuminated French windows on the first floor, shadows moved in an improvised ballet.
He climbed the four steps to the oak-paved gallery. No sooner had he hit the bronze knocker than a liveried butler ushered him into an impressive, high-ceilinged reception hall.
Any visitor lucky enough to be introduced to this place was struck by this unique decor. A wrought iron staircase, a masterpiece of engineering, flourished in aerial volutes. Masterpieces framing the staircase had taken over the two walls, leaving some free space for the four doors. Even more than the size of the canvases that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, it was the common theme of the paintings that impressed - or rather, caught the viewer, transporting him to the heart of the Louisiana bayous, a suffocating bayou. For, from right to left, gigantic bald cypress trees, anchored in the swamps, took over the space. On another canvas, another species of trees typical of the bayous, water tupelos, had been immortalized under a different light. A spectral atmosphere hovered over these gaunt silhouettes draped in Spanish moss, so much so that one expected to see them quiver in a hypothetical breeze.
Rhett only had time to glance at it discreetly - he had had the opportunity many times to admire every detail - because a man with a jovial look approached, arms open.
"My Friend! Finally, here you are! I missed you, Old Brigand!" The owner of the place greeted him with handshakes and manly hugs.
Rhett was amused by his youthful joy. "So did I. I couldn't wait to give you your chance to beat me at poker again, although..." his sly smile grew longer, "be realistic! Your chances are pretty slim..."
Charles laughed. "Hope is life, my dear. One day, when you are very old and your hands are shaking, then I will finally have my revenge! But..." - He looked at him more carefully - "Rhett, you look... exhausted. Your features are hollowed out like you've been fighting the Yankee blockade."
He raised his hand with an evasive gesture: "Oh, it's nothing. The fatigue of the journey..."
Skeptical, his friend scanned him intensely: "Hmm... I know you well enough to assume that you are hiding something from me... And when you are tormented, usually, it is easy to guess the cause..."
Rhett no longer felt the energy to deny it. From their very first meeting, Charles' intelligence and psychology skills soon revealed the weak point in Captain Butler's armor. A weak point, which, during their too drunken evenings, betrayed delusions of emerald eyes and jet hair.
It was enough for him to give a sigh of weariness for the other to detect the cause of his "fatigue".
Charles inhaled loudly and said, as if it were obvious, "It's Scarlett. Ah! Your Scarlett..." - Those two words weighed heavy with innuendo. "The femme fatale! Your femme fatale!" (Your fatal woman)
"Fatal... You can't imagine how fatal..." Then he shook himself and displayed his nonchalant mask. "Let's talk about something else, shall we? Well? Are they here?"
"Yes! - He lowered his voice - unnecessarily, but he was amused by the conspiratorial atmosphere: "They all answered present. And they are waiting for you like the messiah."
Rhett shook his shoulder in a friendly manner, "They're waiting for us. Let the show begin!"
The two swinging doors opened into a large room. Hundreds of books lined the shelves of large mahogany bookcases on two sides of the walls. The diffused light from the wall sconces gave an intriguing relief to the old bindings with their worn leather and exposed nerves, so much so that it would not have been surprising to discover grimoires two centuries old.
It was the realm of literature, but also of pictorial art, for small canvases, placed on delicate carved mahogany easels, were ostensibly displayed in front of the shelves to claim the primacy of painting over printing.
It was, again, a representation of the bayous of Louisiana. But realism had deserted these paintings. The trees covered with their moss had a phantasmagorical aspect brightened up by the play of the rich colors reflecting in the swamps.
Not a single feminine touch in this universe designed for gentlemen's conversation,
especially since the comfortable leather armchairs were inviting to meditation. For the time being, some of Charles' guests had appropriated them, while the others were standing and talking.
An ethnologist would have dreamed of studying the fauna gathered in this place.
It was a competition for originality. The cheerful array of thickly striped pants, brightly colored ruffled shirts and colorful scarves casually slung over the shoulder seemed to have come straight from the Black Crook's costume workshop. Hats whose shape had been knowingly diverted or imported French "berets", signed the final touch to this unorthodox outfit, as were moreover the capillary excesses, unruly beards and crooked moustaches.
To complete this incongruous picture, one or the other had forsaken the cigar to privilege the meerschaum pipe with its exaggeratedly slender volute mouthpiece.
Among them, the two friends stood out.
Everything about Charles signaled that he belonged to the oldest nobility in New Orleans, combining distinction and casualness.
Rhett's elegance with his impeccably cut clothes in the finest fabrics gave him an air of a lord among his vassals. The only infringement from the classic Charlestonian gentleman's style was a royal blue lavaliere bow whose lustrous silk matched his tanned complexion and his fleshy white teeth.
The host announced with an ounce of theatrical tone, "Gentlemen, the one you've been waiting for is finally with us. Captain Butler!"
One by one, the men greeted Rhett, alternating frank handshakes for those who had met him before, with more timid greetings for others impressed to see the living legend of the blockade breaker "in real life".
If the arrival of the butler bringing champagne and strong alcohols lowered the volume a little, the exclamations started again as soon as the small group of about twenty men could hold a glass in their hands.
However, it only took one throat-clearance from Rhett for the dissipated group to calm down, as his presence naturally imposed itself on the audience.
The youngest of the group, and presumably the cockiest, clinked the crystal of his faceted glass on the bottle to silence the remaining chatterers.
The Charleston drawl echoed through the room: "My dear friends! The famous painter Charles Le Moyne de Bienville has done us the immense honor of receiving us in his warm home. I thank him sincerely" he concluded smiling at the latter.
The others nodded loudly in agreement.
Magnanimously, Charles nodded amiably, "It is a pleasure to participate with all of you in this new artistic adventure."
Rhett took the opportunity to get to the significant part: "A high-risk adventure as I like them!" he added with a mischievous pout. "In any case, let's bet that counting among us a descendant of Jean Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville, - the very one who founded this jewel of dynamism that is New Orleans - will inspire us!"
After the unanimous nods, Rhett continued, "Charles and I wanted you to be here tonight because you are the epitome of talent in painting and sculpture. You symbolize both the enduring spirit of the Old South in all its cultural richness and good taste, but also the assurance that a new creative breath is spreading across America. And our joint initiative will contribute to this, I am sure!"
Carried away by the ardor of the famous Captain Butler, the guests were under the spell.
"As a preliminary remark, let us first recall this observation: for a long time, it was appropriate to describe America as an artistic backwater. (*2) To compensate for the obvious absence of cultural institutions that could stimulate their talent, young American artists used to study to Europe to perfect their training. They were numerous to paint in Parisian workshops under the supervision of French artists who taught them their own classical academic style. I know that many of you have benefited from this enrichment. Returning from their training, these painters and sculptors used European techniques in their work while infusing it with their vision of America."
"But this empirical situation, for a great nation such as ours, could not continue. Fortunately, in recent years, there has been a realization that a powerful cultural infrastructure must be built in order for American art to flourish. Local governments and private initiatives have been joining forces to make our own art schools flourish. And, thanks to the initiative of generous donors, a few museums have begun to spring up here and there. The most important was six years ago, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York."
The young troublemaker challenged him, "This northern museum will have its hands full soon with the two museums in Charleston and Atlanta - that you so generously helped create -, because their concept is revolutionary!"
The other artists approved and took the opportunity to raise a glass to Rhett Butler.
Rhett settled for a modest smile. "Thank you. Indeed, the Bonnie Blue Butler Arts Museums Foundation will allow as many Americans as possible to be transported in one place from the mysterious, timeless Egypt, to the most innovative French pictorial movement represented by those now called the 'Impressionists. However, Art, your Art, is not only destined to be housed in museums, even the most well stocked ones. It must be the jewel in the crown of the rich homes of bankers, landowners and industrial magnates. And you, who represent the elite of Southern painters and sculptors, deserve to have your work valued at its true worth so that you can live comfortably and devote yourselves to your creative inspiration, without concern for material contingencies."
Rhett's speech was punctuated by nods of approval from those present.
"I often feel like I'm up against a wall, with no way to get my paintings known outside of a local art gallery and a small circle of initiates," said one. Another added, "Buying the canvas, brushes and pigments costs a fortune. I must admit that I have sometimes lowered my selling prices excessively because I had to resort to such expedients to survive."
With a wry chuckle, Rhett summed up the situation: "It is true. It is not enough to just live "d'amour et d'eau fraiche" (on love and fresh water)', as the French say! You are great artists. And you deserve to grow rich by your work. That is why, under the impetus of Charles, who had the idea and will be the mastermind, we are inaugurating the Southerners' Art Club tonight, which will facilitate meetings between the artist and the art-loving investor."
Applause crackled. The reputation of Charles Le Moyne de Bienville was well established. Like the fame of his family due to his illustrious ancestor, he had succeeded in establishing himself as the most original and prolific artist in the Southern States.
Rhett invited him to speak: "To tell the truth, the idea came to me while talking with a painter in Rhode Island. He and some Providence artists have been discussing forming an association to stimulate culture and exchange between artists and collectors. Due to some internal squabbles, the Providence Art Club is slow to be officially created. (*2) The idea is interesting. I must confess - and you will agree with me - that it is even more attractive to "outdo" the Yankees, and to be the first to officially create such a Club, and what's more, a Club exclusively reserved for artists from our Old South."
Instead of applause, it was one of "Yay!" and "Hooray!" that erupted from the four corners of the library. Any opportunity was good to get even - even if it was peaceful and cultural - with yesterday's enemies.
Rhett spoke again: "While we were inspired by the Providence project, our goal is much more ambitious - and will be eminently more beneficial to all. The American art market is still in its infancy. While it was of course impacted by the financial crisis of 1873, it is on the rise again, and according to the market research I have done, it will grow exponentially. Those who belong to the financial and industrial elite want to ostensibly display their wealth in their mansions that are growing like mushrooms.
That's where Charles and I come in. Our strategy is to expand in three directions. First, after much negotiation, we have acquired the most important art gallery in New York next door to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This is the surest way to capture the wealthy art lovers who believe that what is unique, expensive, and cutting-edge can only be found in New York - including our paintings and sculptures - yours - that will be waiting for them as they leave the museum.
Following the same strategy, we will soon open two more art galleries, both located next to the Charleston and Atlanta museums. Culture-loving Americans who have traveled hundreds of miles to experience the beauty of Eternal Egypt and contemporary painting through the Impressionist exhibition will leave fulfilled, as they will have the opportunity to take the art purchased at Butler and Le Moyne Exclusive Masterpieces Gallery home with them."
The audience was attentive. The artists present, who usually had made indiscipline their trademark, listened wisely, like students before their teacher who was going to teach them the key to success.
"The credible sesame to impose ourselves in the art business is easy to guess: we both belong to the oldest Southern families, we are both financially well off, Charles is a universally acclaimed artist, and I am the creator of two museums. It is not doubtful that it will appeal the most affluent clientele who aspires above all to be also the most refined in the United States.
What could be more tempting for the newly rich than to be accepted by the cultural elite, especially by the Old South, the guarantor of good taste? We are going to make this dream come true by bringing them Art on a platter – in silver, of course. For this third target, Charles and I are going to use our well-stocked address book to encourage them to invest in painting. They are above all businessmen. They'll smell a bargain by betting on talent that will go up in value."
With a broad gesture of his hand, Rhett pointed to his friend, "The Southern artist unanimously admired by his peers, North and South, has agreed to be the head of our three galleries, and to supervise the work of the directors who will run them."
Charles nodded, "I thank you for your confidence, Rhett. It is an exciting challenge to take on since we are starting from scratch. With one certainty: the uniqueness of our distribution network. Only a limited circle of artists selected by us will have the opportunity to exhibit in our galleries, that is to say you, the members of the Southerners' Art Club, and the French who are part of the new painting movement called Impressionism. Rhett being absorbed by his multiple activities elsewhere, it is I who will have the privilege of being your contact. I will be responsible for organizing events and exhibitions where guests will be hand-picked. What better opportunity for the artists - ourselves - to make them aware of our work, and especially to buy it? Because the purpose of all of us, to be fulfilled in our art, is also – let us face it - to enrich ourselves through our talent. The members of the Southerners' Art Club will of course keep all freedom to sell their paintings directly to their usual customers. We will reward our intervention by taking a reasonable commission on the sales concluded when they will be exposed - you will be exposed - in our galleries to the rich collectors attracted by our respectability. I can guarantee you one thing: we will all win!"
The artists present expressed their agreement by congratulating each other joyfully.
With a discreet sign, Charles asked his butler to fill the champagne glasses.
"Let us drink to the birth of the Southerners' Art Club and our historic boost to the art market in America!"
Before raising the glass to his mouth, Rhett cleared his throat and, with a mischievous smirk, he clarified, "Oh I forgot to mention one point of detail - which is also revolutionary - Southern women artists will be allowed to belong to our very closed circle (*2), in the same way as those belonging to the Impressionists. What do you think?"
This "little detail" provoked the astonishment and then the euphoria of Charles Le Moyne de Bienville's visitors, and gave the pretext for a new round of champagne.
The "baptism" was a great success for all the guests.
ooooOOooo
After the new members of the Southerners' Art Club took their leave, promising to meet again soon, Charles led his friend into his workshop.
"I missed your den!"
A den that Rhett knew well.
The back part of the ancestral home had been transformed to conform to the specific needs of the artist.
The first room would have made any art supply dealer envious. Blank canvases mounted on stretchers of all sizes were stored vertically, each protected by a sheet. Glass display cabinets occupying the entire height and width of the other two sides of the wall were full of treasures, more appetizing to a painter than any candy store. Large wooden boxes lined two shelves. They overflowed with brushes of all sizes, made of skunk, squirrel or goat hair, pig bristle brushes, and a host of iron spatulas of the most convoluted shapes, seeming like oddities to the uninitiated, but a feast of precision to any artist. Drawing blocks were waiting to be chosen by the master to "sketch" his designs on.
The eyes of any visitor who had the privilege of entering the workshop would inevitably come to rest on the rainbow-colored shelves. Long tubes of oil paint, tablets of paste for watercolor, grease pencils for charcoal, bottles of Indian ink, even simple colored pencils or lead pencils, everything was available for the inspiration of the Master. As for the jars of pressed powder, pigments of red or yellow ochre, indigo, vermilion red earth, or copper mineral oxides, - not to mention the precious gold flake powder -, they had been preciously collected so that Charles could transfigure in exact tones the images of his visions.
A little apart, near a window to ensure safe ventilation, alcohol products to clean the brushes were stored with bottles of protective varnish.
The door on the left led to a warehouse with closed shutters so that the sun's rays would not damage the artist's finished paintings. Rhett did not need to lift the protective sheets. He had admired each painting as a connoisseur. Some of the paintings were waiting for the framer to apply gold leaf to the Louis XV or Empire moldings ordered by the clients. Others would soon be delivered to their new purchasers to decorate the beautiful mansions of Louisiana.
As proof of the infinite trust his friend had in him, Rhett was even allowed to look at the unfinished works. Some of them would eventually be retouched according to the mood of the moment, while others were no longer deemed worthy by their creator to be exhibited. Not discarded however, because they were a crude testimony of the doubts, the unfulfilled dreams and the failures of the New Orleans native.
The two men crossed the last door to reach the painter's den. It was an ideal place to work: brightness and shade, in the open air and under cover, a deep perspective while maintaining privacy.
Glass door windows ran the full width of the three sides of the workshop. At this time of night, they were wide open onto a wooden gallery, so that in the darkness one could have pretended to be in the middle of the garden. The louvered shutters, also wide open, were the best protection during the day against the Louisiana heat and humidity. Not to mention the giant branches of two century-old cypress trees that spread a veil of shade inward.
The sensation of being in the middle of nature was even more disturbing because the subjects of the paintings focused on the Mississippi wilderness. Then by an effect of imagination, the cypress trees of the outside merged with those of the canvas put on the easel, the reality becoming integral part of the painting itself, the painter incrusting himself in the scene like nests of mirrors. Where did reality begin? Where did the dream end?
The furnishings were Spartan: two easels, with two sketched paintings ; a wooden box filled with tubes of colors and brushes, another with wooden palettes stained with multiple colors and rags; further on, a long oak draper's table, with only the bottom shelf filled with large sheets of sketches, and two armchairs.
"Make yourself comfortable, please." He pointed to one of the two armchairs with worn upholstery, and marked, here and there, by a few paint stains.
He took off his jacket, tie, and pulled his sleeves up over his forearms.
Rhett imitated him "Ah! Some air..." He inhaled greedily the benevolent draught that rippled from the bay window, seemed to circle around them like a refreshing caress to escape again on the other side of the open windows.
Charles pulled two large cigars from a humidified box, offered one to Rhett, and then brought a full bottle of whiskey to the side table between the two seats.
The golden liquid flowed into the crystal glasses, "Let us drink to the Butler and Le Moyne Exclusive Masterpieces Galleries, the Southerners' Art Club and the complete success of this first meeting!"
"Yes. They are all up for the adventure. Thanks to you who had the brilliant idea for this association – and you will do all work." He laughted.
"I am happy, it is true, of the alliance of our artists to perpetuate our southern artistic wealth. But, not surprisingly, it was you who managed to get them on board! It wouldn't surprise me if tonight they all dream of a pouring of dollars!"
They laughed heartily.
"I have no doubt that we will both make good money in our galleries. However, the supervision of the galleries has not to be a hindrance to your own artistic creation. Hence the importance of choosing the three directors carefully. When I return from France, you will submit your choices to me. As for the infrastructure, the New York gallery already exists, and the Charleston gallery is being completed at the same time as the museum is being finished. In Atlanta, my friend in charge of art has found the perfect space for us, right across from the museum. So everything is going to happen very quickly."
"This is all very exciting. This ambitious project could never have come to fruition without the creation of your two fantastic museums that will attract art collectors like flies, from North to South, from West to East. And we will just have to 'fish' them out for the benefit of us all."
"Yes, at first, the idea had not occurred to me. It is because of my Bonnie..." Rhett's voice trailed off.
They stayed a few minutes to enjoy the ambient serenity. In the heat of the night, one perceived some agitated beats of diurnal birds.
When Charles pretended to want to refill their glasses, Rhett stopped him with his hand, "At the risk of surprising you, I won't empty your bottle tonight."
As his drinking partner raised his eyebrows in surprise, Rhett explained, "I had a little health glitch yesterday that made me realize that my old carcass is deadly."
Charles got up from his seat, "What happened? You are worrying me, Rhett!"
"Well..." - Rhett ran his fingers through his hair - "Let's just say I've had some emotions that have... disturbed me. Disturbed being a euphemism for how close I came to not being there with you tonight."
"Damned! Tell me more! Do I have to take the words out of your mouth?"
Freed from digging out the abscess that was eating away at him, he laconically revealed, "It is Scarlett. I spent four days with Scarlett. To go to a business meeting in Washington."
The French roots of Charles Le Moyne de Bienville's ancestors expressed with a resounding "Oh la la!" full of undertones. "I must admit that I am speechless! After all these years, you have managed to win back her heart! What a victory after such a hard fight! Have the dramatically smoldering embers exploded into a bonfire? You must be in seventh heaven!"
Rhett swallowed so hard that Charles heard him. His eyes were closed, a smile of pure bliss spread. His friend laughed mockingly, "Well, well, well. That bad?"
Rhett returned with difficulty to reality. He shook himself, and rubbed his temples, "And in the morning, she told me it was over and that she was going to marry that bland Vayton!" This time, he almost choked, so much his rage returned, as tenacious as the day before.
"Ah! The Haute Couture artist who has been hanging around her since you saw her again..."
Rhett stood up and started pacing. "I do not understand, I do not understand her damn behavior! Goddamn it! It had never been so..." He stopped. Certainly, the two men had no qualms about bragging about their various bedfellows. Nevertheless, his intimacy with Scarlett was a treasure he selfishly cherished. "She even had the nerve to inform me of their wedding day: the day after the Charleston Museum opening."
His friend pursed his lips. Maybe it was time to try to talk some sense into him: "Uh... If the date is set, it all sounds pretty final. I know I have suggested it to you dozens of times, but don't you think it would be healthier for you to move on permanently? You did that when you got divorced."
The Charlestonian let out a wounded-beast groan: "Forget her? I cannot forget her. God knows I tried! You have seen it. But she is in my skin. She is a slow poison that runs through my veins and will only be eliminated when I die. No, I will fight for her. Until the last second. I will regain my strength in Europe. And I will arrive in time to prevent her from doing this madness. In spite of her and her mule-like character. She trusts him blindly-and I don't blame her for not doing the same with me." He chuckled bitterly. "I'll have to get him off his pedestal."
"Um... A perfect man as presented in the press... This will not be easy."
His doubtful pout was more telling than words, "Maybe... I smell a lead... I shall know more when I get back to Charleston. If not..." He closed his eyes.
Charles was struck by the fact that he was carrying his age soundly tonight.
"Otherwise... I won't be able to continue..."
This cryptic formula made Charles shudder because he could see between the lines what it implied.
ooooOOoooo
Saturday, July 17, 1876, Charleston, at Duncan's Fashion Headquarters
"Blanche, please confirm to Mrs. Mary Louise Booth (*3) our appointment for August 1. I am anxious to have dress No. 3 in the next issue of Harper's Bazaar. Will it be ready for presentation to the magazine's editor?"
"Yes. The final embroidery on the collar will be completed on Monday. Then it will go to inspection to make sure there are no defects. Purely formal inspection since all operations have already been reviewed many times at each stage of the seams."
"Thank you. And if Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt contacts you..."
"I will let her know that you will be traveling to New York on August 7 to present the progress of the projects."
"As usual, you are perfect, Blanche!"
The young woman blushed slightly.
To hide her confusion, she continued, "Everything is arranged for your departure on Monday. The own varnish has already been brought to the Charleston station's warehouse. I have given instructions that all six rooms should be ready for your guests."
"Thank you, Blanche. In case of an emergency, please feel free to send a telegram to our hotel."
Everything was ready...
ooooOOoooo
Notes on Chapter 51. :
(*1) Jean Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville founded New Orleans in 1718. The character of Charles is purely fictional.
(*2) The Providence Art Club : it was created in 1880. It is the first one which is intended to put in touch the artists and the purchasers, apart from the art galleries, in order to help the patronage. It was also the first to accept women among its members. Source: Exploring American art in the nineteenth century - blog/2017/10/27/exploring-american-art-in-the-nineteenth-century
(*3) Mary Louise Booth, first director and editor of the Harper's Bazaar from its creation in 1867 to her death in 1889.